He Was a Star
by rain on a clear day
Summary: Stars shine brightly for years, until they get so hot, so scorchingly, burningly hot, that even they can't take it anymore. That's when they die. Stars go out in a burst of noise and light that affects planets millions of light years away. They still die. Connor was a star. Every day, he grew a little hotter, until, one day, he burnt right up.


**hello, readers! This is my first Dear Evan Hansen story, so be kind! Well, not much to say today, so hopefully you'll enjoy enough to review! Adieu!**

Stars shine brightly for years, until they get so hot, so scorchingly, burningly hot, that even _they_ can't take it anymore. That's when they die. Stars go out in a burst of noise and light that affects planets millions of light years away. They still die.

Connor was a star. Every day, he grew a little hotter, a little hotter. Hell, there were days he couldn't bear feel his own skin for fear of getting scorched. _He was a star _is what he told himself on the worst days, when he didn't want to live, when he didn't want to die, when he didn't want to _exist. _

There were so many great people that had walked the same street he was wandering through; Hemingway, Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Marilyn Monroe. He wasn't comparing himself to them in any way though...at least they had done something with their lives. He was just following their frail, lost footsteps.

Besides, it was how everyone went out, wasn't it; they all felt themselves burning up, fizzling out little by little and before they knew it, they were left with nothing but a whited sepulchre walking.

Every day, Connor grew that much angrier, that much hotter; at the world, at his family, at his life, at himself. He felt himself burning out, and was it better to go out in an inferno of words, emotions, _pain, _that to fade away slowly, living but not alive? He chose the first option; there was nothing left for him on the earth, and after his death, he would be free from the anger, the responsibility, the _pain_.

Nobody said that it was his own fault, nobody voiced their hatred for him, their relief of his death, because no one had to. They all knew he was fading away, nobody, in their heart of hearts, was shocked.

Even Zoe. She knew it was his own fault; she knew that she shouldn't grieve so hard for someone who had only brought misery into her life; she knew that it was pointless to regret everything that wasn't her fault. Still, who was she to dishonour the dead?

He had had said Connor wasn't all she knew of him, but could she believe the words of a boy who appeared from thin air _claiming _to be part of her lost brother's better side that she knew nothing of? No. she didn't believe him. She _wished, _she wished with all her will, that she did believe him, but she knew it was nothing more than fantasy.

Her brother had been the uncontrollable flame in her house as far back as she could remember. Even then, Zoe could have forgiven him, tried to help, even. The only problem was, he _romanticized _it, the flame, the burning and the heat. She couldn't try to help someone who was addicted to pain.

It had been better when she had been younger. Connor had been a good brother; he was caring and she loved him. Zoe didn't know when it changed, all she did knot that even when he was gone, she couldn't quite get herself to break the habit of locking her bedroom door at night.

Was it all she could do to _play the part _of the grief-stricken younger sister? Was her heart really so cold that she didn't have it in her to feel for the suicide of her own brother? Was her head so clouded with her own selfishness?

Was it her fault?

Maybe, she hadn't seen the signs; been the sister instead of the foe; maybe she hadn't done all she could. Maybe he wasn't really gone until she had decided so.

She knew she shouldn't mourn so, but what else could she do but play the role of the anguished younger sister; she wasn't a monster...was she?

Nobody said that it was his own fault, nobody voiced their hatred for him, their relief of his death, because no one had to. They all knew he was fading away, nobody, in their heart of hearts, was shocked.

Cynthia Murphy was devastated. Connor had been her son; he had been her life; he had been her _project. _Connor had always been that extra notch spacy, he never lost that slightly glazed look in his eyes that told he wasn't completely _there. _Still, she had always thought that if she got everyone to pretend as though things were normal, they would be; if she pretended that _Connor _was normal, he would be.

Cynthia had given up on her oldest child long ago. She had tried not to show it, but he had always known. She had treated him as a lost cause, and the stacks of money she used putting him through counselling, therapy, group discussions, had always been a last-ditch effort - some way to spend her never-ending money.

It would have been hard enough to grieve the death of her son without constantly wondering if she was a heartless monster for worrying just as much, if not more about the effects this would have on her social standing.

Cynthia hadn't grown up rich. Her mother had gotten drunk and died in a car crash at an early age, and her father earned barely enough for the two of them through an unforgiving job clerking at the Hardy and Mason Firm For the Better. When she married Larry, she had everything she could ever wish for and more, and she wasn't going to let a crazy son get in her way. So, she had tried her damn hardest to try and forget he was even struggling in the first place.

Instead, she was more forgiving with him; she didn't send him to the therapist, she didn't put him on medication, but she did try and teach him on her own. Cynthia tried, but she wasn't going to go far as to do anything that might in the most roundabout way affect her social standing.

Some might have said that it made Cynthia directly responsible for the suicide of her own son, and do you think she hadn't dwelled over that, spending sleepless nights in the company of only herself and her self-hating thoughts? Oh, she had.

Still, what happened when she was left only wondering what would happen when the truth of Connors suicide left the walls of their own house and to the ears of her neighbours?

Nobody said that it was his own fault, nobody voiced their hatred for him, their relief of his death, because no one had to. They all knew he was fading away, nobody, in their heart of hearts, was shocked.

Connor had always been his biggest failure, and he knew the ghost of his wrongdoings would haunt him for the rest of his life. Connor would always be the _what could have been..._of his otherwise perfect life, the insignificant detail that would lurk in the back of his mind forever onward.

Larry Murphy knew he could have done better, he knew he could have tried harder to understand his son; he also knew that their relationship had been fractured both ways, and that nothing was one-sided. They were two ends of a very colourful spectrum, and Larry didn't even pretend he knew his son, still, it hurt him to his core that he _didn't even know his own son. _Connor had never tried, he understood, to reach out either, but who was he to berate someone who wasn't even on this earth anymore, little could they defend themselves.

The first time he realised that maybe Connor wasn't the open, friendly, emotional boy he once had been was when Miguel appeared. After that, he started noticed the frequent vanishing act Connor put up, the glazed light in his eyes when he was there that signalled that he really wasn't.

After that though, Larry stopped trying; after all, if his own son didn't believe he was a safe source to rely on, why should he bother mending severed ties. Now, he wondered if his pettiness wasn't all in his head; now, he wondered at the consequences his actions brought; now, he wondered if he maybe killed his own son.

Connor had been broken since before Larry bothered to remember. He had always been sad, angry, stressed, depressed, _wrong. _There were so many things Larry could have done for his boy, there were so many things Larry hadn't bothered to do before.

Evan hadn't known Connor, not really. He had known the make-belief friend, the martyr poster-boy on a suicide prevention organization, the ghost that urged him to keep lying, the school shooter, the freak who only ever wore black and never let go of his headphones, but he didn't know who Connor Murphy was.

Still, Evan had seen in Connor's death what might have been him. It was so easy, it as so hard, I was so dangerous, safe, scary, comforting. Evan didn't know what it was, but he knew he had a taste of it when he let go from the fourth highest branch of the tallest tree in Sunny Apple's orchard. It could have been Evan who was known as _that kid. _It could have been Evan with the anger issues, Evan the freak, the school shooter, the _ghost. _

Evan had anxiety, depression, he often isolated himself at school. The only difference was that his mother, though she didn't understand much, she _tried_, so he got help. Connor hadn't. He hadn't….he hadn't…...he _hadn't. _And when the boy who was practically Evan's mirror image cracked, he could only feel pity, and some ever living envy which only gave way to the growing tide if self-loathing that welled up in his chest every time he even tried to examine his thoughts. Connor was what Evan could have been, had he _been brave _and let go from the highest branch instead of climbing down.

He was enough of a coward that he couldn't even kill himself properly.

Connor had also been Evan's ticket to a loving family, an accepting community at school, friends, and the heart of his crush. Though it had weighed on him more heavily than all the mountains on earth, he had smiled through it, and enjoyed it, which he didn't even want to _think _about. Evan had only benefitted from Connor's death, and he hadn't even grieved for the ghost of what could have been himself there.

**just saying, some of the references are from the DEH book, which, by the way, if you haven't read, it should be on the very top of your booklist!**


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